One of the most famous short stories written in and about Punjab is Toba Tek
Singh by Saadat Hassan Manto published in 1955. The translation presented here
is not mine and a number of translations have been done of the story from the
Urdu original. One name which has translated much of the stuff from Urdu into
English related to North India and Pakistan is Dr. Frances Pritchett of Columbia
University.
Though the story is known by many who have got their education in India, many
youngsters of newer generation need to introduce themselves to the most iconic
tale of modern Punjab related to the partition based on which many producers
including Aamir Khan have planned to make a film – an idea which has not been
concreted yet assumingly due to lack of the sufficient matter needed for a film.
The story has been played at many theaters and a short English film has been
made on it.
Saadat Hassan Manto – one of the best short story writers of 20th century,
was born in Samrala near Ludhiana and his works were a combination of
psychoanalysis and social etiquette of humans. He was tried for obscenity thrice
– he wrote freely about the social and sexual issues considered a taboo in
Indo-Pak society – but never convicted.
His first story was Tamasha, based on JallianwalaBagh massacre of
1919.
Below for the new generation of Punjab, is his magnum opus Toba Tek
Singh. Since Punjabiportal is read by many youngsters, it just makes sense that
the translation of the story as read from various sources be present
here.
Enjoy!
Two or three years after the 1947 Partition, it occurred to the governments
of India and Pakistan to exchange their lunatics in the same manner as they had
exchanged their criminals. The Muslim lunatics in India were to be sent over to
Pakistan and the Hindu and Sikh lunatics in Pakistani asylums were to be handed
over to India.
It was difficult to say whether the proposal made any sense or not. However,
the decision had been taken at the topmost level on both sides. After high-level
conferences were held a day was fixed for exchange of the lunatics. It was
agreed that those Muslims who had families in India would be permitted to stay
back while the rest would be escorted to the border. Since almost all the Hindus
and Sikhs had migrated from Pakistan, the question of retaining non-Muslim
lunatics in Pakistan did not arise. All of them were to be taken to India.
Nobody knew what transpired in India, but so far as Pakistan was concerned
this news created quite a stir in the lunatic asylum at Lahore, leading to all
sorts of funny developments. A Muslim lunatic, a regular reader of the fiery
Urdu daily Zamindar, when asked what Pakistan was, reflected for a while and
then replied, “Don’t you know? A place in India known for manufacturing
cut-throat razors.” Apparently satisfied, the friend asked no more
questions.
Likewise, a Sikh lunatic asked another Sikh, “Sardarji, why are we being
deported to India? We don’t even know their language.” The Sikh gave a knowing
smile. “But I know the language of Hindostoras” he replied. “These bloody
Indians, the way they strut about!”
One day while taking his bath, a Muslim lunatic yelled, “Pakistan Zindabad!”
with such force that he slipped, fell down on the floor and was knocked
unconscious.
Not all the inmates were insane. Quite a few were murderers. To escape the
gallows, their relatives had gotten them in by bribing the officials. They had
only a vague idea about the division of India or what Pakistan was. They were
utterly ignorant of the present situation. Newspapers hardly ever gave the true
picture and the asylum warders were illiterates from whose conversation they
could not glean anything. All that these inmates knew was that there was a man
by the name of Quaid-e-Azam who had set up a separate state for Muslims, called
Pakistan. But they had no idea where Pakistan was. That was why they were all at
a loss whether they were now in India or in Pakistan. If they were in India,
then where was Pakistan? If they were in Pakistan, how come that only a short
while ago they were in India? How could they be in India a short while ago and
now suddenly in Pakistan?
One of the lunatics got so bewildered with this India-Pakistan-Pakistan-India
rigmarole that one day while sweeping the floor he climbed up a tree, and
sitting on a branch, harangued the people below for two hours on end about the
delicate problems of India and Pakistan. When the guards asked him to come down
he climbed up still higher and said, “I don’t want to live in India and
Pakistan. I’m going to make my home right here on this tree.”
All this hubbub affected a radio engineer with an MSc degree, a Muslim, a
quiet man who took long walks by himself. One day he stripped off all his
clothes, gave them to a guard and ran in the garden stark naked.
Another Muslim inmate from Chiniot, an erstwhile adherent of the Muslim
League who bathed fifteen or sixteen times a day, suddenly gave up bathing. As
his name was Mohammed Ali, he one day proclaimed that he was none other than
Quaid-e-Azam Mohammed Ali Jinnah. Taking a cue from him a Sikh announced that he
was Master Tara Singh, the leader of the Sikhs. This could have led to open
violence. But before any harm could be done the two lunatics were declared
dangerous and locked up in separate cells.
Among the inmates of the asylum was a Hindu lawyer from Lahore who had gone
mad because of unrequited love. He was deeply pained when he learnt that
Amritsar, where the girl lived, would form part of India. He roundly abused all
the Hindu and Muslim leaders who had conspired to divide India into two, thus
making his beloved an Indian and him a Pakistani. When the talks on the exchange
were finalized his mad friends asked him to take heart since now he could go to
India. But the young lawyer did not want to leave Lahore, for he feared for his
legal practice in Amritsar.
There were two Anglo-Indians in the European ward. When informed the British
were leaving, they spent hours together discussing the problems they would be
faced with: Would the European ward be abolished? Would they get breakfast?
Instead of bread, would they have to make do with measly Indian chapattis?
There was a Sikh who had been admitted into the asylum fifteen years ago.
Whenever he spoke it was the same mysterious gibberish: “Uper the gurgur the
annexe the bay dhayana the mung the dal of the laltain.”
The guards said that
he had not slept a wink in all this time. He would not even lie down to rest.
His feet were swollen with constant standing and his calves had puffed out in
the middle, but in spite of this agony he never cared to lie down. He listened
with rapt attention to all discussions about the exchange of lunatics between
India and Pakistan. If someone asked his views on the subject he would reply in
a grave tone: “Uper the gurgur the annexe the bay dhayana the mung the dal of
the Government of Pakistan.” But later on he started substituting “the
Government of Pakistan” with “TobakTek Singh,” which was his home town. Now he
begun asking where Toba Tek Singh was to go. But nobody seemed to know where it
was. Those who tried to explain themselves got bogged down in another enigma:
Sialkot, which used to be in India, now was in Pakistan. At this rate, it seemed
as if Lahore, which was now in Pakistan, would slide over to India. Perhaps the
whole of India might become Pakistan. It was all so confusing! And who could say
if both India and Pakistan might not entirely disappear from the face of the
earth one day?
The hair on the Sikh lunatic’s head had thinned and his beard had matted,
making him look wild and ferocious. But he was a harmless creature. In fifteen
years he had not even once had a row with anyone. The older employees of the
asylum knew that he had been a well-to-do fellow who had owned considerable land
in Toba Tek Singh. Then he had suddenly gone mad. His family had brought him to
the asylum in chains and left him there. They came to meet him once a month but
ever since the communal riots had begun, his relatives had stopped visiting
him.
His name was Bishan Singh but everybody called him Toba Tek Singh. He did not
know what day it was, what month it was and how many years he had spent in the
asylum. Yet as if by instinct he knew when his relatives were going to visit,
and on that day he would take a long bath, scrub his body with soap, put oil in
his hair, comb it and put on clean clothes. If his relatives asked him anything
he would keep silent or burst out with “Uper the gurgur the annexe the bay
dhayana the mung the dal of the laltain.”
When he had been brought to the asylum, he had left behind an infant
daughter. She was now a comely and striking young girl of fifteen, who Bishan
Singh failed to recognize. She would come to visit him, and not be able to hold
back her tears.
When the India-Pakistan caboodle started Bishan Singh often asked the other
inmates where Toba Tek Singh was. Nobody could tell him. Now even the visitors
had stopped coming. Previously his sixth sense would tell him when the visitors
were due to come but not anymore. His inner voice seemed to have stilled. He
missed his family, the gifts they used to bring and the concern with which they
used to speak to him. He was sure they would have told him whether Toba Tek
Singh was in India or Pakistan. He also had the feeling that they came from Toba
TekSingh, his old home.
One of the lunatics had declared himself God. One day Bishan Singh asked him
where Toba Tek Singh was. As was his habit the man greeted Bishan Singh’s
question with a loud laugh and then said, “It’s neither in India nor in
Pakistan. In fact, it is nowhere because till now I have not taken any decision
about its location.”
Bishan begged the man who called himself God to pass the necessary orders and
solve the problem. But ‘God’ seemed to be very busy other matters. At last
Bishan Singh’s patience ran out and he cried out: “Uper the gurgur the annexe
the mung the dal of Guruji da Khalsa and GurujikifatehÖjoboley so nihal sat
sriakal.”
What he wanted to say was: “You don’t answer my prayers because you a Muslim
God. Had you been a Sikh God, you would have surely helped me out.”
A few days before the exchange was due to take place, a Muslim from Toba Tek
Singh who happened to be a friend of Bishan Singh came to meet him. He had never
visited him before. On seeing him, Bishan Singh tried to slink away, but the
warder barred his way. “Don’t you recognize your friend Fazal Din?” he said. “He
has come to meet you.” Bishan Singh looked furtively at Fazal Din, then started
to mumble something. Fazal Din placed his hand on Bishan Singh’s shoulder. “I
have been thinking of visiting you for a long time,” he said. “But I couldn’t
get the time. Your family is well and has gone to India safely. I did what I
could to help. As for your daughter, RoopKaur” –he hesitated–’She is safe too in
India.”
Bishan Singh kept quiet. Fazal Din continued: “Your family wanted me to make
sure you were well. Soon you’ll be moving to India. Please give my salaam to
BhaiBalbir Singh and BhaiRaghbir Singh and BhainAmritKaur. Tell Balbir that
Fazal Din is well. The two brown buffaloes he left behind are well too. Both of
them gave birth to calves, but, unfortunately, one of them died. Say I think of
them often and to write to me if there is anything I can do.”
Then he added “Here, I’ve brought some plums for you.”
Bishan Singh took the gift from Fazal Din and handed it to the guard. “Where
is Toba Tek Singh?” he asked.
“Where? Why, it is where it has always been.”
“In India or Pakistan?î
“In India….no, in Pakistan.”
Without saying another word, Bishan Singh walked away, muttering “Uper the
gurgur the annexe the bay dhyana the mung the dal of the Pakistan and India
durfitteymoun.”
At long last the arrangements for the exchange were complete. The lists of
lunatics who were to be sent over from either side were exchanged and the date
fixed.
On a cold winter evening truckloads of Hindu and Sikh lunatics from the
Lahore asylum were moved out to the Indian border under police escort. Senior
officials went with them to ensure a smooth exchange. The two sides met at the
Wagah border check-post, signed documents and the transfer got underway.
Getting the lunatics out of the trucks and handing them over to the opposite
side proved to be a tough job. Some refused to get down from the trucks. Those
who could be persuaded to do so began to run in all directions. Some were stark
naked. As soon as they were dressed they tore off their clothes again. They
swore, they sang, they fought with each other. Others wept. Female lunatics, who
were also being exchanged, were even noisier. It was pure bedlam. Their teeth
chattered in the bitter cold.
Most of the inmates appeared to be dead set against the entire operation.
They simply could not understand why they were being forcibly removed to a
strange place. Slogans of ‘Pakistan Zindabad’ and ‘Pakistan Murdabad’ were
raised, and only timely intervention prevented serious clashes.
When Bishan Singh’s turn came to give his personal details to be recorded in
the register, he asked the official -”Where’s Toba Tek Singh? In India or
Pakistan?”
The officer laughed loudly, “In Pakistan, of course.”
Hearing that Bishan Singh turned and ran back to join his companions. The
Pakistani guards caught hold of him and tried to push him across the line to
India. Bishan Singh wouldn’t move. “This is Toba Tek Singh,” he announced. “Uper
the gurgur the annexethe bedyhanamung the dal of Toba Tek Singh and
Pakistan.”
It was explained to him over and over again that Toba Tek Singh was in India,
or very soon would be, but all this persuasion had no effect.
They even tried to drag him to the other side, but it was no use. There he
stood on his swollen legs as if no power on earth could dislodge him. Soon,
since he was a harmless old man, the officials left him alone for the time being
and proceeded with the rest of the exchange.
Just before sunrise, Bishan Singh let out a horrible scream. As everybody
rushed towards him, the man who had stood erect on his legs for fifteen years,
now pitched face-forward on to the ground. On one side, behind barbed wire,
stood together the lunatics of India and on the other side, behind more barbed
wire, stood the lunatics of Pakistan. In between, on a bit of earth which had no
name, lay Toba Tek Singh. (2053)
